Midnight
by PteraWaters
Summary: Santana didn't think she needed anyone, until the person who mattered was gone and there wasn't anyone left. Tag for 2X15 so SPOILER ALERT! Brittana and slight Puckurt mentioned


SPOILER ALERT! Spoils events from 2x15: Sexy

* * *

Fuck this shit. She was never mixing feelings with sex again. Santana Lopez was her own woman and she didn't need some gorgeous blonde trampling all over her heart like it was a freaking dance floor during a performance of Stomp! She didn't need whiny man-bitches who wanted every other girl than her either. Blonde girls, fat girls, Jewish girls. You name it and everyone got more love than her.

Shit.

Wiping away another tear, Santana punched at her phone with one angry finger, tapping her foot as she waited for him to pick up.

"What?"

"I need you, Puckerman," she insisted, trying to keep the tears out of her voice. "Just come over."

"First of all, no," Puck told her, though his voice was a little softer than she would have expected. "Second, shouldn't you be calling Sam? And third, are you crying?"

"I ... I," she choked. Santana Lopez did not choke. She had a witty comeback for everything. She kept it real, except for when it was her fucking heart on the line.

"Tana," Puck sighed, "you can't-"

"I'm fucking heartbroken here, Puckerman!" she shouted, dropping to her knees on the carpet of her bedroom and dissolving. She wasn't supposed to dissolve. She was a Cheerio. She ate nerds like Artie for breakfast and her spine was made of solid steel. It was her heart that was the problem. This big, gooey ball of sucking want in her chest made it impossible to breathe or think. Or keep her fucking mouth shut anymore, either.

"I was - I was so scared, you know? Of saying it out loud? Of what people would say. I mean, I know it's not the same as Kurt because jocks love lesbians or whatever, but it is the same. It is!"

Santana heard a quick breath from the other side of the line before Puck replied, "Brittany."

"She won't break up with Artie, Noah! I gave her _everything_, and she wouldn't do it!"

After a long, silent pause, Puck murmured, "At least you had the balls to do it."

Santana wanted to think he was just being encouraging, but she knew him well enough to ask, "What? What didn't you have the balls to do?"

"I ... shit," he groaned, and as she wiped away more tears, she could almost see him, lying on his bed with his hand over his eyes. If she made him naked in her head, that couldn't hurt either, right? "He's gone now, anyway. Except he's not. He keeps showing up at parties and in coffee shops talking about how people are either one or the other and it's driving me fucking insane."

"Is that why you're dating the whale?" Santana laughed, almost choking on the spit and tears in her mouth.

"Are you?" he asked. "I mean, maybe only girls can be bi."

After thinking about it for a long moment, Santana answered quietly, "Yeah. I think I am. I mean, I loved you for awhile and now I love her. Miss Holliday says it's all about who you fall in love with."

"Miss Holliday is the bomb," Puck laughed, the sound cheering Santana into laughing a little more as well. "Do you ...? Whatever. I'm dating Lauren now. It's a mute point."

As distracted as she felt, with her eyes practically swollen shut and her nose all drippy - no wonder no one wanted her - Santana began to put the pieces together. Instead of making fun of Puck like she would any other day, Santana whispered, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm pretty sure boys can be bi, too. It's a big rock star thing these days."

Santana could have sworn she heard Puck's smile. "Thanks, babe. Maybe I'll talk to Artie a little. Tell him fat chicks are where it's at."

"Mercedes isn't seeing anyone," Santana offered hopefully.

"You're totally right!"

Santana laughed again, wiping the side of her face against her bedspread. "Thanks, Noah. Talking to you was actually better than sex, if not quite as gratifying."

"Cool," he replied, and Santana hung up, head full of plots to get rid of a kid in a wheelchair without getting caught.


End file.
